


everything stays

by respectedface



Category: Hololive
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming of Age, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Philosophy, hololive - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/respectedface/pseuds/respectedface
Summary: Marine and Rushia, from autumn to winter.
Relationships: Houshou Marine/Uruha Rushia
Comments: 19
Kudos: 96





	everything stays

**Author's Note:**

> This idea's been racking in my brain ever since I fell into the rabbit hole—but I've only gotten around to writing it these past few weeks.
> 
> I want to make it clear that this fic doesn't actually ship the real people behind the streams, just the characters they portray. With that said, enjoy reading!

_Betty, one time I was riding on my skateboard_

_When I passed your house_

_It's like I couldn't breathe_

Marine doesn’t think much about the mysterious arrival of Uruha Rushia at first.

For all she cares, the short, petite girl is just one of the dozens of other students that flocks to class every morning—ready for another round of mental health deterioration. Rushia is new to the school, sure, but the initial excitement surrounding it is bound to die down: blending into the stress and agitation of the educational system.

And then she starts wearing glasses.

It’s a simple change, but it shakes the core of Marine’s entire world.

_Is she actually cute?_

She pays more and more attention to Rushia, particularly in the most minute of details. Like how the black frame of her glasses complements her vivid green hair just right, or how her dark blue sweater vest looks so crumpled yet so _warm_ , or how she answers questions in class despite stuttering all the time.

All of it enraptures Marine…

“Marine!”

Her spine jerks upward as she straightaway examines her surroundings. _Right. Cafeteria_. Marine has the tendency to get lost in her thoughts every now and again. She brings a hand to her face, feeling the bandage covering her right eye. _Still there_.

Flare and Noel are looking straight at her, their heads titled to the side.

“W-what?” Marine darts her pupils away. She takes a slice of her lunch and gobbles it down, hoping the noise of the canteen drowns out the conversation.

Flare smirks, “Oh, nothing. You’ve just been staring at the new girl for about five minutes.”

“No I haven’t!” Marine says, carefully glancing at the table across from theirs: Rushia had been sitting down—absorbed in some sort of book.

She was, in fact, staring.

“Yes you have,” Noel states as she chews on her food.

Marine growls in response, poking and playing with the meat on her plate.

“I hear she hangs out with Pekora a lot,” Flare prods.

“Huh?”

“Rushia. She hangs out with Pekora.”

“ _Pekora_?” Noel questions, licking some sort of condiment off her finger, “wasn’t she the one who set off the fire alarm?”

“Five times and counting.”

“Ah. That explains it,” Noel goes back to chewing on her food. She teases, mouth-full: “Better stay away, Marine. She hangs out with a bad crowd.”

Marine frowns, “Oh, and you are just a perfect little girl scout, _aren’t you_?”

Noel scoffs, “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, keep on eating. Maybe one day you’ll actually get to eat Fla—“ 

A shoe pummels Marine’s forehead in an instant. She flops backward, almost falling from her seat and alerting everyone in the near-vicinity. Flare freezes and stares with eyes wide open.

“Okay. I deserved that,” Marine says in a raspy voice.

Noel walks over and collects her shoe, “Yes you did.”

Flare clears her throat once the tall girl returns to her place in the table, “Anyway. It seems like _someone_ has a new crush.”

“Really? We’re still talking about this?”

“Bet you lunch if they get to first base,” Noel says.

“You’re on!”

“You know what? You two are filthier than me. And that’s saying something,” Marine stands up and grabs her bag, “believe it or not, I don’t like people placing bets on my love life.”

She stomps towards the exit as Flare, hands encircled, calls out to her, “Oh c’mon, Marine. We’re sorry already! We want to help!” 

“I need to study!”

“Since when have you studied?”

“AGH!”

She finds herself gazing at Rushia again in the period after lunch. It’s common for Marine to fall asleep or yawn herself to death in Philosophy class—but to her, even Rushia’s tiniest of movements are far more appealing than the gentle embrace of a nap. Marine would rather be embraced by her, as a matter of fact. 

_It’s not my fault_ , she thinks, _not when she’s so… so…_

The loud ringing of the bell awakens Marine from her daydreaming. She sighs and walks to the door, her mind a complete blur of dearly departed white men’s theories on the universe and the manga she’s going to read later. So all in all, a usual day.

That is, until a certain girl approaches her.

“Hi. M-Marine. Right?”

Marine turns towards the source of the voice, “What do you wa—“

She stops speaking as soon as her sight trails down to two buns of green hair. Marine gulps. She’s afraid of looking down any further.

“Are you okay?”

Marine, unable to move, somehow responds, “Yeah. Just… uh, give me a second.”

_Keep it cool._

At last, she locks sight with those eyes that have filled half of her sketches these past few weeks: piercingly red, and sealed behind two spotty lenses. There’s an aspect to them that tugs hard at something deep within Marine.

“You’re Rushia. R-right?”

“Yeah,” she replies in a soft voice, “so. Do you have any ideas in mind already?”

Marine raises an eyebrow, “Eh?”

“For the Philosophy storybook; we were assigned together,” Rushia points to the blackboard.

“Oh. Sure! The storybook, of course! Um, let’s see—“

“You weren’t listening, huh?” she says.

Marine droops down, “Yeah, you got me.”

And for the first time, she hears Rushia laugh. As with most crushes, it’s enough to make Marine’s entire week. She laughs as well, and little by little, her bursting heart calms down.

“I don’t blame you. Sir can be pretty boring at times.”

Marine snorts, “More like all the time. Has anyone told you any of _the stories_ about his class yet?”

Rushia leans forward, intrigued, “ _The stories_? Strangely, no one has.”

“You’re in for a treat, then. A good number feature me in a starring role.”

“Why am I not surprised?” the small girl giggles. A few moments pass before she fidgets with the strap of her bag, looking at the ground, “do you want to tell me some of them while I w-walk home? It’s really, really close and we can talk about our project too!”

Marine blinks, and her cheeks turn a light pink. _Walking… home. Did I process that right?_

She thinks she did.

Marine smiles warmly, “I’d love to.”

“Your mother!”

Rushia walks delicate steps on the sidewalk—autumn leaves crushing beneath her soles. She tucks her hands behind her back and wags her head once more.

Marine groans, strolling slightly behind, “Is it Pekora?”

Rushia pauses in her tracks, “You think she knows how to sew?”

“Fair,” the redhead says, “welp, I give up. Who is it?”

She resumes her walk, pinching her blue sweater vest, “My brother made it.”

“What? Unfair!” Marine exclaims.

“I don’t see the problem.”

“You haven’t told me you have a brother!”

“We’ve only started talking in the past half-hour.”

“Still,” Marine pouts, “ _this is truly an unjust game_.”

Rushia covers her mouth and chuckles, “Do you at least like the sweater?”

“’Course I do. It looks so… _comfy_.”

The short girl nods, “My brother gave it to me after our family moved for the first time. I remember I couldn’t stop crying when my parents told me—it was like I was leaving everything I knew behind.

So my brother made it using stuff from the local fabric store. He said that way, I would always have a part of my first home, wherever I went.”

Rushia wipes a smidge of dirt off her glasses, and the pair walk together for a while making little to no noise. It doesn’t take much for Marine to figure out that the girl was intensely thoughtful, beautifully so. The type who’d sob over the thought of finishing a good book: realizing that they can’t get lost in its world anymore.

She wants to protect that.

Marine breaks the silence, “Your brother seems nice.”

“Yeah. You should meet him: I’d think he’d like you.”

The taller girl smiles, “Whoa there, we just started dating, like, forty minutes ago.”

“Shut up,” Rushia giggles, pointing to Marine’s clothing, “how about you, then? Does that beige cardigan have an _epic anime backstory_?”

Marine snorts, “Not really. It looked nice so I bought it.”

“Ah. That makes sense.”

They soon arrive at a charming, quaint house surrounded by fall trees that colored everything in an orange and brown hue. Rushia, brushing a strand of her hair back, faces Marine.

She inhales sharply, “I think we forgot to talk about the project.”

Marine slouches, “Shit. Any ideas?”

Rushia hums as she slants her head to the side in contemplation. The teenager then raises a finger upwards, “Heraclitus!”

“Heracla-what?”

“He-ra-cli-tus.”

“Okay. What’s his deal?” Marine asks.

“Everything changes.”

Rushia grins and, as gentle as a feather, places her finger on Marine’s nose—and the latter almost blushes redder than her own hair. She runs to her house, waving goodbye and leaving Marine standing on a broken cobblestone.

A million thoughts swirl in Marine’s mind. A million exciting, terrifying, and indescribable thoughts.

She sighs and picks up an autumn leaf stuck inside a crack on the ground.

“Change, huh?”

* * *

_But if I just showed up at your party_

_Would you have me? Would you want me?_

_Would you tell me to go fuck myself_

_Or lead me to the garden?_

“You totally kissed her.”

“I _just_ met her yesterday, Flare,” Marine snaps.

“But the tension was obvious!”

“I agree,” Noel comments, her chin leaning on her palms, “especially when she booped you? Now _that_ was cute.”

“Look, the point is; we did not kiss.”

Flare narrows her eyes, “But you wanted to, right?”

“I… I,” Marine retracts to her chair and crosses her arms, “Yeah. I think I like her.”

Noel clasps her hands together, “Knew it!”

“Kill me.”

She bows her head on the cafeteria table, ignoring her two friends and their excited chatter. Marine is still fifty-fifty about the prospect of high school crushes, which is surprising, since anyone who is even casual acquaintances with her would say that she’s an affectionate person. And Marine is—to an extent.

Because really, she’s scared shitless of being rejected again.

Flare strokes her hair, “Oh don’t worry, Marine. We’re not going to do anything stupid.”

“I think I’ll end up doing the stupid things myself, actually.”

Noel, about to bite a piece of her hamburger, suddenly leaves her mouth open. She swallows deeply, “Maybe you can save those stupid things for later.”

“What?”

Marine lifts her head up. What greets her vision is Rushia standing in front of their table, along with another girl who seems to be a couple of inches taller. The stranger faces away, doubtless attempting to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Rushia beams, “So we were wondering if—“

“ _You_ were wondering,” the other girl interjects.

“Fine. _I_ was wondering if we could sit here, with you guys. She’s Pekora by the way.”

Marine straightens her back. And in a split second, she blocks all her anxieties for a later time. _Screw it, I want to eat lunch with Rushia._

Excitement springs upon her face, “The famous Pekora! I’ve heard so much, yet this is my first time seeing you.”

“I-is th-that so?” Pekora trembles, forcing a laugh, “u-uh. Peko.”

The group falls silent.

“Okaaaaaay,” Noel says in a high-pitched tone.

Flare salvages the conversation, “Um—Pekora, why don’t you sit next to Noel? Then Rushia can sit next to Marine.”

After much convincing, Pekora shakily places her lunch tray beside Noel and takes a seat, her pupils bolting from side-to-side. She nibbles onto a cookie as the group talks, slurping her drink every now and again.

Noel nudges her with a shoulder, “Is it true you set off the fire alarm five times?”

Pekora gasps and raises her voice, “Who told you that?”

“Rumors.”

“I pekoed them accidentally! It wasn’t my fault!” 

Noel sneers, “How the hell do you do that accidentally?” 

“But—“

“Seems like something only an idiot could do.”

“Oh really? Why don’t I make your burger _accidentally_ vanish right now, peko!” she challenges, slamming her fist on the table.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

Noel and Pekora continue to bicker as Flare tries to calm the situation down. Marine and Rushia, with front-row seats to the chaos, giggle to each other.

Marine murmurs, “Why does she say peko all the time?”

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

“Of course it is.”

Marine manages to open the nearly-broken door to her room and steps inside. Rushia follows, and it’s clear that she is taken aback by just how messy everything is: dirty laundry scattered on the floor, video games sprawled on the bed, and empty soda cans dumped anywhere _but_ a trash can.

A stack of manga lying on a wooden desk catches Rushia’s attention. She moves closer, and only then does she start to notice their big, bold lettering.

Marine shouts, “WAIT!”

Rushia takes a step back, shrieking. Without wasting any time, Marine grabs the stack and places it under her bed.

She coughs awkwardly, “They’re—ah—an _acquired_ taste.”

“Oh,” is all Rushia can say before she grasps the meaning of Marine’s words. She curls her lip, “I mean, ew! Geez. Are you always this filthy?”

“The room, or me?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, if it’s me,” Marine smirks, “I’d say a solid eighty-percent of the time.”

“And the other twenty?”

“When I’m with you.”

The small girl snickers, “See, that would’ve worked if we were, like, childhood friends or something.”

“Boooo. This is some of my best material!”

“Yeah, yeah. Try it on a different girl.”

Rushia ventures to another corner of the room—one that looks out of place with its well-kept appearance. Several sketchbooks and art materials occupy most of the singular table’s space; meanwhile, a tablet, along with its pen, rests on the far-end.

Astonishment casts over Rushia’s face as she flips through one of the sketchbooks, “Are these—“

“Mine? Yeah.”

“These are… amazing, Marine.”

“Meh. My sketches are pretty weak,” the redhead walks over and places the tablet in Rushia’s hands, “my digital stuff, though? Much better.”

Rushia rests on the bed, and she spends a good fifteen minutes scrolling through every piece, chirping on her favorite ones. Marine watches and listens to her contently.

“You should pursue this,” Rushia declares as she puts the tablet to the side.

“What, and become a starving artist?”

“I’m serious,” she sits up and adjusts her glasses, “you have real talent.”

“But no economic and social capital.”

Rushia sulks, folds her arms, and plops back down on the bed.

Marine laughs, “Any bright ideas, then?”

Rushia replies quickly, “Got it!”

“That was fast.”

“I’ll work for the both of us; that way you can do what you love _without_ the fear of death due to capitalism.”

“Ah,” the taller girl smiles playfully, “all my problems are solved.”

“Who knows? I might become a surgeon—help you study proportions for your drawings.”

“Absolutely genius! Oh, whatever will I do without you?” Marine cries in a wistful tone.

Rushia chuckles, and at that moment, a wonderful idea graces her mind. She perks up again, “You should practice on me, first.”

“What?”

“Draw me,” she says, placing a hand on her chest.

Marine’s eyebrows raise, “Uh.”

“Make it physical, too. I want to have it someday.”

The redhead hesitates, agrees, and collects her materials. To say she’s nervous is an understatement. After all, this _is_ her first gift to Rushia if one thinks about it, and Marine isn’t too keen on screwing that chance up. She needs to nail this.

Rushia poses and puts on a seductive voice, “ _I want you to draw me like one of your ecchi girls_.”

Marine nearly chokes.

 _So much for nailing this_.

“I’m kidding!” Rushia grins, “Just… draw me how you see me.”

Marine sighs and shuts her vision, “Okay.”

And so, Marine sketches. And draws. And erases. And sketches. And draws some more.

She does this until she’s satisfied—until she makes a piece that’s truly beautiful, and imperfect. Because that’s how she saw Rushia.

 _Beautiful, and imperfect_.

It’s two weeks later, and Rushia is in the same dirty room as before, lying down on the same messy bed, staring at the same white ceiling.

But something’s different; her pillow this time is Marine’s lap.

A lot of things are different, actually. Even if it’s been a mere two weeks. Like her brand new circle of friends, and how she could text or call any of them until well into the night. Yet curiously, only one has the power to make a swarm of butterflies appear in Rushia’s stomach without warning.

“What do you think?”

Rushia jolts. She directs her gaze away from the ceiling, “Hm?”

“This,” Marine shows the sketch layout she was working on, “for the storybook?”

“Oh. Yeah… it looks great!”

Marine creases her brows for a minute, as if trying to decipher a puzzle. She resumes her layout and hums loudly.

“What was that for?”

“ _Something’s on your mind_ ,” she replies in sing-song.

“No there isn’t.”

“Yes there is.”

“No! It’s just…” Rushia loses her train of thought. She shakes her head and sits up, surprising her project partner. “Your eye!” she yells.

“My eye?”

“The bandaged one!”

“Ah,” Marine touches the cotton, “I already told you, remember? Biking accident.”

“I-I know that. I just want to—“ the small girl cuts herself off as she moves closer. She raises her left hand, hovering it next to the bandage.

“Rushia?”

“Can I?”

“S-sure.”

Rushia inhales and places her fingers on the bandage. She observes the texture—soft yet rough—and takes her exhale. Her hand then slithers down to Marine’s cheek.

Marine, wide-eyed, grabs hold of the hand caressing her face. She feels its care, its warmth, and a million other little wonderful things.

She leans forward, and Rushia does too.

Their faces are close now. Close enough to be breathing the same air. Close enough to be sharing the same world. Close enough to admitting that what they hold for each other is love.

They lean forward a bit more, and kiss.

That’s another difference.

* * *

_Betty, I know where it all went wrong_

_Your favorite song was playing_

_From the far side of the gym_

“THAT WAS AMAZING!”

Noel jumps up and down in the cinema lobby. Her nails and mouth still hold smidges of the bucket of cheese popcorn she devoured all throughout the film, giving her the appearance of just having ate the Cheetos mascot (and enjoying it). Flare and Rushia laugh at their friend’s enthusiasm while Pekora massages her temple, irritated.

Marine crinkles her nose, “Can your voice be any louder?”

“But it was a good movie!”

“You literally squished me whenever you were scared!” Pekora complains. 

“But isn’t that the purpose of horror? A good scare to get the blood pumping.”

Rushia takes a sip from her soda, “Noel’s got a point.”

“Ugh. I’m surrounded by lunatics, peko,” Pekora turns to Rushia, “ _you_ weren’t much better. I felt like my ears were bleeding every time you screamed!”

“Imagine how it felt like sitting next to her,” Marine says, a portion of her mouth enclosed. Rushia furrows her brows and punches her in the arm. She whimpers, “Ow.”

“Rule one: don’t insult Rushia’s screaming,” Flare clicks her tongue, “well anyway, I need to go to the bathroom. Anyone else?”

Noel raises her hand in a second, “Pick me, Flare!”

“Uh, it’s more of a volunteer thing?”

“Oh. Right,” she nods, “then I’ll go!”

Flare and Noel make their way to the bathroom on the other side of the hall. Pekora yawns, checks the time on her phone, and speaks, “Aw, what the hell. I’ll go too.”

Marine waits for Pekora to exit out of sight before looking over at Rushia. She pokes her hand with her finger. The shorter girl stifles a laugh as she takes another sip from her drink, and pokes back. Now on full-offensive, Marine envelopes the whole of Rushia’s hand with hers, caressing the back-side with the tips of her fingers.

They both expect this act to draw comfort—like a safety net catching all their worries. And sure enough, it does.

Rushia squeezes Marine’s hand and starts, “Are we gonna tell them?”

Marine ponders for a bit. She replies, “We don’t have to right now.”

“Okay. It’s just a bit unfair for them, don’t you think?”

“Three words: Right to Privacy.”

Rushia giggles, “I know.”

“How about this, then?” the taller girl takes her partner’s arms and casts them around her neck, at the same time gripping Rushia’s waist with her hands.

“Marine!”

She smirks, “After we’re done with the storybook.”

“What?”

“The storybook. We’ll tell them after we’re done with it.”

“Fine. Can you please let go now?” Rushia pleads, heat rising in her face.

“Relax,” she whispers, closing the distance between their two faces, “no one’s here yet.”

“Still!”

Marine inches closer, “Sorry about earlier.”

“ _I_ punched _you_. Remember?”

“Then say sorry by kissing me.”

The short girl rolls her eyes, “You are very stubborn, Houshou Marine.”

She moves her face closer as well.

It’s a soft kiss this time, the type that only lasts a few seconds at most. It’s sweet, kind, and delightful. Rushia can feel the twists and turns of Marine’s smile, and she’s positive that Marine could feel hers too. These kisses are Rushia’s favorite.

That is, when other people aren’t watching.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU, PEKO?”

The pair break up their kiss to the sight of Noel, Flare, and Pekora marching towards them, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. 

“So much for waiting.”

Marine likes listening to Rushia talk about things. Anime, science, books—any topic is fine. All Marine wants to hear, anyway, are the tender laughs she sneaks in between breaths, and the light scratch of her hair whenever she says somethings nerdy. She likes hearing Rushia explain complex things, even if she ends up with more questions than answers.

An icy breeze enters through the window of Marine’s room. The redhead shivers as soon as it makes contact with her skin. _December must be close, weird_. It’s like autumn only began yesterday.

Marine adjusts her head on top of Rushia’s lap, and speaks, “Explain Heraclitus again.”

Rushia stops reading her novel, “Again?”

“Sir might ask stuff! It’s best to be prepared.”

Rushia grunts and sets her book aside, “ _Actually_ listen this time, alright?”

“Yes Ma’am!”

“No person steps in the same river twice.”

“Meaning?”

“Shhh. I’m getting to that,” she coughs, “basically, the nature of objects and things are not static or fixed—everything, at all times, is changing or in a state of becoming. These changes all come from opposites and how they react to each other; kinda like a push and pull.”

Marine drags a hand through her hair, and keeps quiet.

“He said that these opposites are necessary in how we define things. Like how a river is called a river because different waters flow through it from one moment to the next. In that way, everything changes and stays the same simultaneously.”

“Huh,” is all Marine can manage.

Rushia picks up her book once again, trying to find the page where she stopped, “He’s a weird one. Oh well, at least it makes for a good story.”

“Yeah…”

“You sure you got it? Usually you don’t.”

Marine stays frozen in her position. She speaks gently, “No, no. I get this one.”

_Don’t cry._

Marine paces around her room. Her steps are angry and frantic, enough for them to be heard from the living room below. She pulls her hair from every direction, and sits down. Leaning on the side of the bed, Marine embraces her knees.

She breathes.

 _Don’t cry_.

Marine hugs them tighter as her head sinks down. She’s just about ready to scream at the top of her lungs.

She doesn’t want this. Not one bit. _Not_ when she’s leaving the place she calls home. _Not_ when she’s moving miles away from her best friends. And certainly _not_ when she’s found… _her_.

_Her._

The teenager scrambles to find her phone. She picks it up, and in a dash, goes to her and Rushia’s messages. Marine examines the chat box and begins typing. But her mind goes blank.

 _You’ll screw it up_.

Her hands tremble. It’s like her phone gained pounds upon pounds of weight in an instant. She tries to type once more.

 _Screw it up like you always do_.

No, she can’t tell her. Not in this state; not when she’s hanging by a thread. She’ll just bottle it up, like she always does, like it’s the only way she knows how to deal with sadness. Marine’s lips quake, and she puts down her phone.

A week later, Marine and Rushia score perfect marks for their Philosophy storybook. They eat an instant-noodles dinner at a convenience store to celebrate. She kisses Rushia goodnight, closes her house door, and crawls to the living room sofa to lie down.

And she cries.

“When are you going to tell her?”

Flare’s words cut like sharp knives into Marine’s skin. The redhead looks away, determined not to catch her friend’s fiery stare. She knows Flare is mad (rightfully so), and during times like these, her eyes transform into a hellscape that can penetrate even the toughest of defenses.

The spot they’re occupying isn’t helpful either. Flare, Marine, and Pekora had been sitting at an outdoor-table of a local café for more than fifteen minutes now—the cold December breeze in full-swing. Even with her thick jacket, Marine still manages to shiver.

She spots a lone autumn leaf waving back and forth in the air, hitting the ground moments after. _Probably the last for this year_ , she thinks.

“You need to tell her, peko,” Pekora says, rubbing her two hands together in a bid to create heat.

Marine leans her head on her palm, “I-I know. Okay? Just—give me time.”

Flare scoffs, “Yeah. I’ve heard that one before.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

Marine doesn’t respond. She understands Flare to be curt whenever she’s irritated with someone, and she always hates it when that someone is her. 

Pekora moans, “Let’s not fight, please? Where is Noel and Rushia, anyway? They’re taking forev—”

“Rushia, wait!”

Marine directs her attention to the sidewalk across from the café: a glowering Rushia tramps towards them, with Noel giving chase from behind.

 _Shit_.

Rushia comes to a halt once she reaches the table. Anger bubbles in her eyes as she surveys Marine, not saying a word. Their piercingly-red quality means something different now; they’re volatile, indignant—ready to burst.

Noel catches up to the group, panting, “Marine, I’m so sorry! It just slipped out of my mouth and—“

“No, Noel. I-uh, shouldn’t have kept it a secret,” Marine stands up and forces a smile, “R-Rushia…”

She tries to grab the short girl’s hand, but the latter rescinds it without a second thought. Rushia clenches her fists, “I hate you.”

Marine stays silent.

“YOU’RE MOVING? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!” Rushia yells, attracting the interest of the few people within the café interior.

“Rushia—“

“I HATE YOU!”

Tears begin to stream down Rushia’s cheeks as her eyes undergo a change of emotion. They’re now _hurt_ , and _damaged_ —losing all sense of passion and vigor. It’s a look that Marine recognizes from before, whenever Rushia talked about a sad ending from a movie or told stories from her hometown. Marine swore she would never make her feel that way.

_And yet here we are._

Rushia continues to weep. She bends her head down and leans it on the other girl’s chest. Raising her fists, she feebly strikes and punches Marine’s body.

_Smack. Smack. Smack._

Flare, Noel, and Pekora swivel their gaze and scrunch their faces. Marine remains in her position, and even though each blow doesn’t harm her physically, it’s like her heart is being torn away. Piece by piece. 

It takes a minute before Rushia slows down and stops, wiping her tears and her glasses. She juts her chin upwards and stares at the redhead.

“You’re too much for me, Marine. I’m sorry.”

Rushia runs in the opposite direction, leaving Marine with nothing but air.

“I’ll, uh, make sure she gets home safe,” Flare says as she hurries after her.

Marine collapses onto a chair and slumps over the café table. Noel takes a seat beside her, rubbing her back.

Pekora sighs, “Guess we won’t be watching that movie anymore, eh peko?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

_Betty, right now is the last time_

_I can dream about what happens when_

_You see my face again_

Marine doesn’t know what to think.

Her life over the past month had been a checklist of bad decisions. _Keep life-changing secrets from your girlfriend?_ Check. _Not talk to her for the whole Christmas break?_ Check. _Spend most of your time holed up in your room, eating and crying?_ Check!

To be fair, Rushia was visiting relatives for the break—rendering her unavailable for most of it. But Marine couldn’t even muster the courage to send a simple text message.

And now here she is: sitting in the cafeteria with Noel, Flare, and Pekora just after the beginning of a new year. The three tried their best to visit her as much as they could. Even so, they know full-well that what Marine and Rushia need is to talk to each other.

Marine plays with the food on her plate. She tosses and turns it over, never taking a single bite.

Noel turns to Pekora and signals her to say something. She gulps. Pekora points to herself and shakes her head furiously. She gives in when Flare joins the silent conversation as well, the pressure of her two peers being too much to handle.

“Uh—um, Marine?” Pekora says, “how are you and Rushia, peko?”

“Way to be direct,” Noel remarks.

“I’m sorry, would you and Flare like to try? Oh that’s right, both of you have no spine, peko—” 

“Where _is_ Rushia, anyway?” Marine asks.

Pekora answers, “O-oh. She said she needed to study or something.”

“Of course she does.”

Flare bites her lip and focuses on Marine, “Here’s the thing. This won’t stop unless the two of you sit down and hash things out.”

“It’s pretty unhealthy,” Noel adds, “Rushia has been miserable too, you know.”

Marine reclines on her seat, “I don’t know if I even _can_ face her.”

“But you need to. You’re moving this summer right?” Flare says.

“Yeah.”

“We only have a few months left with you here, peko. Let’s not waste it.”

They’re right. It’s so obvious that they’re right. In no universe are they _not_ right. The problem is, Marine lacks the strength of will to see it through.

Marine grimaces. She needs to change for Rushia and adjust the way she deals with, well, everything. It’s a big and scary undertaking, to say the least. And Marine isn’t even sure if it’s completely worth it or not.

She’d be overthrowing comfort in her own flaws for, what? Rushia’s kisses? Her smile? Her hugs? Her laugh? Her—

 _Wait_.

 _Of course it’s worth it_.

“The world is always changing,” Marine mutters under her breath.

“Eh?”

“I’m a stupid piece of shit.”

“Good thing you realize it!” Pekora exclaims. Noel steps on her foot. “Ow!”

“I need to—uh,” Marine struggles with her words. 

Flare smirks, “Talk with Rushia?”

“Yes, that! But I don’t know if she wants to see me.”

“I hear Coco is having a new year’s party this weekend,” Pekora suggests.

Noel scrunches her eyebrows, “Isn’t new year’s already over?”

“That’s not the point, peko!” 

“I think what Pekora is trying to stay,” Flare interrupts before another quarrel breaks out, “is that Marine can try speaking to Rushia at the party.”

Marine presses her two hands together, “Can you three bring Rushia there? Please? I’ll arrive a little later.”

They agree without so much as a delay. And Marine is thankful that she has such dumb and stupid friends.

_The only thing I wanna do_

_Is make it up to you_

Marine walks up to the front door of Coco’s house. _This is it_. No amount of teenage hijinks is going to stop her tonight.

Planting her hands inside the pockets of her jacket, Marine takes a deep breath and enters to a neon-lit interior. The residence is huge compared to the others in the town, and yet students still pack almost every corner of the space—dancing or getting drunk-off their asses. Maybe both.

She squeezes through the crowds, the drinking games, and the make-out booths. Only one thing is on her mind.

And then, she sees her. 

_Will you have me? Will you love me?_

_Will you kiss me on the porch_

_In front of all our stupid friends?_

Rushia stands in front of a deserted table, chewing on a handful of potato chips. She looks like a parent who had crashed the party in disguise, what with her oval-shaped glasses and worn-out sweater.

Marine thinks she grew a thousand times more beautiful since they last saw each other.

She approaches her cautiously as some Taylor Swift song blurts out from the house speaker. Rushia doesn’t notice her at first. Everything in the party is a bit too loud, too noisy.

Marine taps Rushia’s shoulder, “Hey.”

Rushia yelps and spins around, crushing the chips in her hand. “Hey yourself,” she says.

“Oh, God—uh.”

Rushia dusts off the mangled pieces from her hand, “I-It’s okay, Marine.”

An agonizing air of quiet engulfs the space between them despite the rowdiness of their surroundings. Anyone can see that the pair wants to talk to each other, they just have no idea how to start.

“Why don’t we go outside?” Marine ventures.

_If you kiss me, will it be just like I dreamed it?_

_Will it patch your broken wings?_

They exit the house onto the snow-covered front porch. Besides two to three people scattered about the lawn, it’s only them and the frosty breeze. The party’s sound is barely audible through the door, though one can still make out the music emanating from within.

Rushia, clutching her arms, gazes out into the starry night. Her expression has an aching look about it—as if she’s unsure or apprehensive.

“I’m not mad anymore,” Rushia says, “Sorry if I shouted.”

Marine scratches her neck, “No, you deserved to be mad. Look, I-I’m sorry for keeping _that_ from you.”

Rushia places her hands on her hips, “I’m your girlfriend, you know!”

“I know! I know! I screwed up... a lot. All because I was scared of how you’d react. I do this thing where I compress every worry, doubt, or fear inside until it all blows up in my face and becomes—something like this, I-I guess.

But I’m gonna change, I swear. I’d rather not… um, lose you.”

The short girl pushes up her glasses, and embraces Marine in a snap. The hug is cozy and snug; a feeling that the redhead sorely missed this past month.

Rushia pulls away, slowly, but continues to grip Marine’s hands, “When are you moving?”

“This summer.”

The words come like a thousand poisonous arrows. “Oh,” is all she can respond.

“It sounds… _bad_.”

“It is.”

“But it won’t be,” Marine persuades, “you, me, Pekora, Noel, Flare—we’ll all still stay together.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

There’s a firmness to Marine’s voice, like she’s stating facts instead of beliefs. It makes Rushia think that they’re facts, too.

“Okay,” Rushia smiles.

Marine locks a strand of hair behind Rushia’s ear, and speaks, “Hey. Drop by my house later: I have a gift. Remember when I sketched you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I had it framed. Hold on to it like your sweater, okay?”

Rushia laughs, “But you’re the one who’s moving.”

“But _you’re_ the sensitive one.”

“Hey!”

Marine chuckles, “Do you at least like it?”

“Of course I do! I just need to up my game for _your_ moving away gift.”

“I look forward to what you come up with, my lovely Uruha Rushia. I love you.”

Rushia whispers, “I love you too, my stubborn Houshou Marine.”

Marine’s face travels closer, and they kiss.

_I'm only seventeen, I don't know anything_

_But I know I miss you_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I love Hololive's third generation so much, it's crazy.
> 
> The verses that are sprinkled throughout the story are all from the song betty by Taylor Swift—which was pretty much my prime inspiration for the mood I wanted to set. 
> 
> Thanks again for the love comrades!


End file.
